Suffit
by varietyofwords
Summary: Chuck and Blair. Post-flashforward. Oneshot. Because tonight, even amidst their tragedy, what they have is more then enough, more than either of them could have ever dared to hope for.


**Author's Note**: I wrote this a long time ago. It is sad and dark and maybe a wee bit melodramatic. I recognize that and am only posting it because people encouraged me to. Set post-flash forward.

* * *

The stark whiteness of the wall reflects the harsh, unfiltered light so strongly that his eyes clinch at the brightness when the elevator doors open. He steps out, brushes off the happy sentiments offer to him by those who only think they know exactly what happens on this floor. His heart thuds, his chest tightens as he strides towards the nurse's station and hoarsely asks for directions to a particular room.

The nurse offers him a tight expression, calmly directs him to walk to the end of the hall, take a right, and enter the third room on the left. Her voice is neutral, steeled against her emotions thanks to years of practice and experience. Still, the nurse cannot help but watch the clearly sleep deprived and anxious man practically jog to the room furthest away from the nursery.

The hustle and bustle of the floor noticeably drops the closer he gets to his destination. He slows as he rounds the corner, tries to take a deep breath and steady himself before pushing open the door. The room is nearly enveloped in darkness saved for a soft light illuminating the figure curled up on small chair set beside the bed. Her knees are tucked up under her chin; her feet are resting on the edge of the chair. If she is startled by his presence, she does not show it as she pushes her mass of hair out of her face and offers him a tight smile.

"Hey," she greets softly. She winces as she unfurls her body and stretches out her long legs before rising to her feet. She steps towards him, gives him a comforting hug as he looks past her over her shoulder to the reason why they are both there.

He calls out her name softly, hopes against hope that she will roll from her side to her back and offer him a magnificent smile. But tonight there is nothing to smile about, and the alarmingly small and fragile woman in the bed looks as though she might break if someone moves her.

"She's asleep," the other woman tells him as she steps back from her one-sided hug. She wraps her grey sweater about her waist and cross her arms across her breast. Tonight, she is not trying to hide her assets from him. Rather she is trying to hide the source of her own joy, her unfetter glow from his gaze.

"And the –"

He cuts himself off, cannot even bring himself to voice the question burning on his tongue as he looks to the other woman with poorly masked hope. She frowns, looks away from him so quickly that he knows before she can even speak the words.

"I'm sorry," she offers quietly. Her apology – meant to be a comfort – falls on deaf ears as he unconsciously blinks back tears. The words pour forth as she repeats what the doctor stated hours ago, skipping the medical jargon she does not understand and moving straight to the point.

She offers him the same assurance he has hear time and time again. He closes his eyes to try and steel himself from the pain because he knows that they are not true. There will be no more after this. He cannot put her through this again. He will not put himself through this again.

"How long has she been asleep?"

"Uh," she pauses, glances at the phone shoved in the back pocket of her jeans for confirmation. "A couple of hours. The doctor came by around dinner time so – four or five, I'd say."

He nods his head, accepts her imperfect timeline without comment. She explains that the doctor would like to keep her overnight for observation, explains as though they have not been through this before. When she is finished, he tells her to go home, rejects her protests with a wave of his hand and a reminder that she needs to sleep.

The reference to the necessity hangs between them, sucks up the oxygen supply and morphs into something hard between them. She tries to mask the effect it has on her, but she has always been a poor liar and fails miserably in her attempt. It's alright, though, because tonight he is a poor liar as well.

She gathers her coat and purse, slips it on and plays with the clasp as he tells her to take the limo home, that Arthur will be happy to take her. She nods, thanks him for the offer even though they both know he is not going anywhere tonight. They exchange farewell kisses on the cheek – a pleasantry that seems silly tonight – and she strides towards the door.

Her fingers curl around the handle, ready to yank open the door and escape from the oppressing darkness. Yet his voice, his parting question causes her pause in her movements. She finds it oddly comforting – a reassurance that not much has changed even as the world has morphed into something unimaginable.

"He's with Nate and Dan at our place," she answers. And then, before he can ask, she adds, "Dorota brought over his pajamas for tonight, and Dan has promised to make waffles in the morning."

The last part is teasing reminder of when he lived with the van der Woodsen-Humphrey clan, when Lily and Rufus had tried to their blend their dysfunction into a cohesive unit that eats waffles for breakfast and talks about their plans for the day.

"You know he doesn't like waffles," he reminds her.

"Because you told him not to. He probably hasn't even tried them."

"What did you expect? Basses have a genetic pre-disposition to not like waffles," he informs her with a soft smile. The reminder of his son brings a smile to his face, pulls him from the darkness and towards the light without fail. She smiles at the mention, too. Places her hand on his arm and gives him a comforting squeeze.

"Goodnight, Chuck."

"Goodnight, Serena."

He watches her leave, waits for the click of the door and the parting flash of blonde hair before picking up the chair his step-sister vacated and moving it to the other side of the bed. He knows enough about her, knows the telltale signs of her deep slumber versus her pretending that he is not at all surprised to be greeted by her open, observing eyes as he sinks down into the chair.

His body leans forward, shifts until he is perched on the edge of the chair and his body is pressed against the side of the hospital bed. He slips one hand under her pillow in search of her hand, raises another to brush aside her hair and stroke her cheek with his thumb.

"Hi," he whispers to her softly.

Her mouth opens to say hello, closes when she cannot find the strength to greet him. She shuts her eyes at the sensation of his skin against hers, shakes with an unreleased sob.

"I'm sorry," he tells her as he ghosts his lips across her temple. She wonders briefly what he is apologizing for because it is she that has failed him, but then she remembers the last twenty-nine hours and she grows angry.

"You weren't here," she hisses at him. Twenty-nine hours ago, she had been happy and healthy and awaiting his return from Australia. Then her world fell apart, rolled down her legs and left her body until she was a crumpled mass on the floor facing the darkness alone.

"I know," he exhales as a hot breath against her ear. "I'm so sorry."

He plants a kiss against her cheek, absorbs the stray tear that has fallen despite her attempts to control her visceral reactions to his presence, to their situation with his lips. She shifts her gaze from his hovering face to the spot on the wall she has been staring at for the last few hours.

"I'm tired," she replies in a monotone voice. He recoils slightly at her rejection, barely masks the dejection on his face as he pulls away from her body and bids her to sleep.

"I'll be here when you wake," he promises.

She accepts his statement without comment because she is afraid that if she opens her mouth, she will tell him that she rather he wasn't. The powerful painkiller administered to her by the nurse hours ago masks the pain racking her body, but it is his hand curled in hers that becomes a sedative to her mind and lulls her to sleep.

She awakens with a jolt. The full moon illuminates the room, casts a light over the slumped form of her husband in the chair beside her bed. The same light catches on her ring, sparkles and shines in a breathtakingly beautiful way.

But, tonight, the breath is robbed from her by the emptiness inside of her. Her hands slide to her belly, searching and probing for confirmation that her nightmare is not her reality. But all she finds is the tender belly and the ache between her legs serving a reminder of all that she has lost.

A sob tears through her body so loudly and violently that her husband is startled awake. He blinks at her for a brief moment, watches her grab and pull at the grayish blue hospital gown she has been clothed in. She looks wild and frantic, panicked and scared.

"Blair," he beckons as he lunges towards her and tries to wrap her in his embrace. She fights him, claws at his enveloping arms, and tries to force him to back off.

She throws her legs over the edge of the bed, moves to stand and escape the confines of this terrible place. He tries to press her back into the mattress, fails to keep her from rising on wobbly feet. She struggles to stand, falls into his arms as she takes a weak step towards the door.

"I have to leave," she sobs in his arms.

"No," he intones. "No, you need to stay here. The doctor said –"

Her eyes flash in anger, drill her displeasure into his. She seems terrified and determined, frantic and firm in her need to leave. Yet there is something alarming and distressing about the way that she is looking at him.

"My baby," she beseeches. "I need to find my baby."

His throat closes painfully at her words. He swallows the lump, brings a hand up her to face to steady her gaze. There are unshed tears in her eyes, a stinging reminder of the grief crushing and shattering them both.

"Blair," he calls softly as he tries to beckon her back to him. "The baby's gone."

"No," she yells. "No!"

"Yes," he chokes out even as the word threatens to suffocate them both. He has said this word to her in this context before, said the following words too many times. "We lost the baby, Blair. It's gone."

She shakes her head no violently, pushes against his chest as though he is the manifestation of everything evil about this situation. Then again, maybe he is. It had been his idea, his wish to try to just once more. He closes his eyes at the reminder, pulls her tighter against him.

"My baby," she whimpers against his chest. "I want my baby."

"I'm sorry," he repeats again and again. "I'm sorry."

"Where's my baby, Chuck? I need my baby."

Her words shatter him. He slumps against her, presses his face into the soft skin of her neck as hot tears roll down his cheeks and fall onto her clothed collarbone. She rips herself away from his embrace when the dampened cloth presses against her skin, shakes with her own pain as she beseechingly looks at him and begs him one last time.

"Can you bring me my baby? I need my baby, Chuck. I need my baby boy."

The last part causes his head to snap in surprise. This baby and two before it were genderless; unknowns lost before they could be appropriately named. And then because he knows her better than he knows himself, he promises to bring her baby as long as she promises to stay in bed.

The door to the apartment is opened before he can even knock, and he sidesteps a half-asleep Humphrey to enter the apartment. His stepsister – clad in a nightgown that exposes more than it hides – immediately begins questioning his late night appearance at their apartment, assumes the worst when he does not answer and instead heads straight for the guest bedroom.

The light from the hallway illuminates the massive bed in the middle of the room, serves as a spotlight on the tiny lump curled in the middle of the bed. He pauses for a moment, takes a steady breath before silently padding towards the bed. He sinks down onto the bed, watches the rise and fall of his son's small chest with unshed tears in his eyes. He leans down, places a soft kiss on the crown of his son's head before scooping the little boy up in his arms.

"Daddy," the little boy mumbles sleepily. His father shifts his grip, strokes the little boy's head reassuringly as he informs him that the two of them are going to see Mommy. The little boy accepts the answer, snuggles into the warmth of his father's embrace, and wraps his arms around his father's neck.

Chuck bypasses an anxious Serena who had taken to hovering just outside the door in the hallway without comment in his quest to make a quick exit and return. She follows him anyways, says nothing as he marches across the apartment to the front door.

"Chuck, it's late," her husband says as tries to stop the man at the door. "A hospital really isn't the place for –"

"Don't tell me what's best for my son," Chuck snaps. "I'm his father. I know what's best for him."

He glares at Humphrey until the man steps aside and allows him the space to move. He wraps his hand about the door knob, begins to yank open the door when his stepsister's voice bids him to stop. He looks over his shoulder towards her with a face that screams that she should back off.

The look melts off his face when he sees the small coat and slippers in her outstretched arms. Sees the reminder that it is cold outside, that he was about to carry his son outside in only a pair of lightweight pajamas. She offers him a smile, tries to sooth the worry on his face as she helps slide the sleeping boy's arms into his coat and feet into his shoes.

"Thank you," he replies.

It is her turn to brush away his thanks, offers him an encouraging smile as she opens the front door for him. The elevator is awaiting his call for service; few people are utilizing it at three o'clock in the morning. He shifts the weight in his arms so he can reach up and pull the hood of his son's coat up to shield his face from the cold. And then he cuddles his son closer and places a kiss against his temple with silent tears rolling down his cheeks.

The nurse standing behind the desk tries to stop him, calls after him and follows him down the hall. It is not visiting hours and while expectant fathers are invited to stay at all hours, little boys really should not be here at nearly four in the morning. She falters in her determination when he sees him turn right at the end of the hall. Under their breath and out of the earshot of patients, the nurses refer to this particular cluster of four rooms as the hallway of sadness.

She is facing away from the doorway, staring off at the wall that had held her attention for hours. The opening of the door casts a light into the darkness, but it is only the familiar outline of him on the wall that causes her to stir in bed. She makes a move to sit up in bed, winces at the pain.

"Lie down," her husband tells her forcefully as he strides to the other side of her bed.

He reaches down, pulls back the white sheet and blue blanket on her bed, and slowly creates a space in the bed beside her. Then, gingerly and slowly, he deposits the sleeping boy into the bed beside her. She, molds her empty body around him, wraps her arms around her baby and cuddles him close.

"My baby," she whispers, greeting the little boy with soft words and a smattering of kisses on his soft features. "My beautiful baby."

He watches her for a moment, watches the way she marvels over Henry's small hand in her own. She looks up at Chuck, looks at him with piercing pain as she clutches Henry close to her.

"He's enough."

The words are spoken by them both, mutually agreed upon as they watch the rise and fall of Henry's chest as he slumbers on. They can recognize the truth; recognize through their pain that their little family of three is more than enough. More than either of them could have ever dared to hope for.


End file.
